Sidelong
by Bobbie
Summary: Indirect. Roundabout. Yeah, you'll have to read to get beyond a definition out of me. It's good to be back. Next story up: Rock and a Hard Place. Thanks to M. for the title!
1. Tale from a Teenage Dirtbag

**Tale from a Teenage Dirtbag**

Growing up, I never took anything my grandpa said seriously. Thought it was all just a bunch of clichés.

But as I'm staring headlong into the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen for the second time in my life, all I can think is…it really _is_ a small world.

I realize too late that I'm staring. Feel the air moving softly, shallowly, through the part in my lips. Great. I must look like a dying fish right about now.

"Hey! I don't have all day, you know."

There's a bitterness that clashes with the beauty, makes it purer somehow. And now I'm thinking, is it possible that she hasn't a clue how achingly beautiful she is?

I bite my lip to keep my mouth closed, somehow managing a muffled "sorry" as my trembling hand scoops up the cash card haphazardly tossed on the countertop. She rolls her eyes, a motion that somehow leads me to think she's been ogled enough to last a lifetime.

The transaction is over in less than a minute, and I can taste the blood from my abused lip as I try to pry my eyes from the sway of her retreating hips, the next customer already frowning at the pile of unchecked groceries awaiting my attention on the countertop.

"What's the matter with you," a scratchy, high-pitched voice says, followed by a severe poke in the chest with a wooden cane; "Are you retarded? I haven't got all day, either, you know!"

Were it not for my complete disorientation, I might have played with the old bat on the giving end. Instead, I ease back into reality with nothing but a slight wince at the ache in my breastbone, bagging groceries and typing methodically on the register, wondering whether the pain was from the crony's jab, or from something else. A glance to the front of the store tells me she's gone. Quick, silent, just another customer. Almost like the last time.

**----**

_One year? ago…_

It was my first day at the market, and I was hating life.

I'd gotten caught making runs for a dealer—nothing hot, just one of a thousand middlemen. I seemed to be a lucky one in that I was a juvie. Didn't rat because I didn't know anything, but it got me a month in a detention center and a year's worth of probation. My parents agreed I needed something to fill my days, and so, there I was, drowning in the smell of brown bags and tins, dreading that another five hours of mediocrity lie ahead before I could run from the place, when the craziest thing happened.

I got shot.

Well, not really. A graze, actually, but it sounds better, right? Yeah, well, anyway, I never heard a thing. No one did. Just felt like someone punched my cheek. I didn't have time to react before a car came careening through the front of the store. And then it was all out chaos.

Apparently, the driver and his occupants were a bunch of crooks. Not entirely sure what kind; all that mattered at the time was that they all had guns and they weren't afraid to use them. A lot. Bullets sprayed the racks around me, and I don't know how I managed to get behind the countertop without getting hit a second time. The next few seconds slowed down to an eternity as I realized that a few other people weren't so lucky. The cashier lay just a few feet away, having collapsed against a display of canned beets, coarse graying hair a bloody mat at the back of her neck.

The bullets were still flying, aimless, unending, and over the ricochet I could hear an angry voice shouting. The bullets finally stopped, but the voice went on.

"You fucking idiots! Whose fucking team are you on? Get the fuck out of there; he's dead. C'mon, out of the car! Fucking automatics."

More cans fall. The sound of hard soles on broken glass. A grunt and the agonizing creak of a car door. The bloodstain on the back of the cashier was getting bigger, and I realized she's alive, but I couldn't move. Footsteps were getting closer. Out of the corner of my eye, near the back of the store, I thought I saw a shadow, but I couldn't be certain. And then another voice.

"Amos P. Wiley! Give up! You're surrounded!"

It dawned on me suddenly just what exactly the store had somehow managed to get in the middle of. I couldn't tear my eyes from the form of the dying cashier, suddenly and absurdly wondering if this would somehow affect my probation. I felt something wet and warm cooling on my cheek, knowing it was my blood. I did my best not to make a sound in the sudden, eerie silence that settled.

And then, the first voice: "You're bluffing, bounty hunter! I don't see any back up. I think we got ourselves an amateur, boys!" A haughty laugh and a few not-so haughty sniggers. I was gathering the courage to chance a peek, hoping they were distracted enough that I might sneak out the back. I'd made it about halfway, my knees aching, my fingertips pulling me up to the edge, when something grabbed my collar and yanked me back. I hissed, landing solidly on my tailbone, proud that I hadn't screamed like a little girl, not so proud that I'd closed my eyes, instinctively stealing for the worst.

When nothing happened, I began to unfold, my shoulders relaxing, muscles unwinding, eyes opening one at a time. I remember thinking I must have hit my head, not quite believing what I saw. So I blinked a few more times, feeling my jaw go lax.

"C'mon, c'mon. Spike, you egotistical sonuvabitch."

She was real. And talking to herself. Black hair, no, wait…violet? And a gun. She had a gun, and she was using the check-out counter as a shield, bouncing on her heels, peeking around the side, then bobbing up to glance at the front of the store, then down again. I'm not entirely ashamed to admit the next thing I noticed was that she had next to nothing on. Some bright yellow, shiny, suspendered thing that managed to cover all the wrong places and expose some of the right ones.

"Jet, there's only three of them. Looks like two got taken out in the crash." Her voice was smooth and seductive, her tone business-like, tempered to a whisper as she leaned over a comm.-link.

A bounty hunter. A real, live, drop-dead gorgeous one, close enough to smell the kind of shampoo she used. I went scouting for it, too, afterwards; bought a bottle for myself, to help me remember. Yeah. I remember being so damned turned on, I'd forgotten all about the dying/dead cashier and having been almost shot myself on my first fucking day of the Lousiest Job Ever. And then she was talking again.

"Spike, no, wait…grrrrah!"

_Oooh_, yeah, I was gonna have to change my pants.

The bullets started up again, but I kept my eyes open this time. Every moment would be fodder for my teenage, sex-starved brain later on. Each time she moved to take a shot, I came closer to getting a glimpse of what lay beneath those shorts. I kept expecting something to give, as tight as the get-up was. Well, maybe hoping was a better word.

I nearly voiced an objection when her lithe little body eased around the checkout counter into the melee out front. The gunfire had been reduced to an occasional rat-a-tat from the far end of the store, and in the distance, I could hear sirens. I strained to hear anything else, and thought perhaps I could make out the sounds of a fistfight, but I wasn't sure. And then, silence reigned.

But not for long.

It was that growl again, that voice, oh, that voice, and I found myself balancing on my heels, preparing to bob up to sneak a peek much like she had a few moments before.

"You asshole! Why don't you ever stick to the plan? You could've gotten us all killed! Not to mention the fact that we needed this guy alive to collect the bounty!"

A groan from said guy interrupted her tirade. Peering over the edge, I could barely make her out in the waning twilight. Apparently, something had taken out the power. She was standing over a balding, overweight, gussied up mound of flesh, one booted foot resting on the obese mound of his belly, her arms akimbo, gloved hands sitting low on her hips. She was glaring out the front of the store, and for the first time, I could see her face, or at least her profile. Her cute, upturned nose, red lips puckered into a pout, eyes fierce beneath a lowered, flawless brow. I was beginning to think there would never be a time when she could look ugly. _Ever._ Then again, what did I know? Except that my pants felt like they were going to explode.

I could faintly make out another voice approaching from outside, and wondered if this was "asshole", and just what the nature of his relationship was with this purple-coiffed goddess.

"Break it up, you two." This from that first voice heard at the back of the store. The owner emerged from the right. He was massive standing next to her, appeared much older, with what looked to be a prosthetic arm cradling a rather large rifle. She didn't look at him when he spoke, eyes still boring holes into "asshole", who'd yet to make an appearance. I envied the bastard, whoever he was.

Something was said, something too low or far away for me to catch, but it had the current object of my, uh, _attentions_ taking a breath and bending at the waist to rattle off a scathing retort…Well, I'm sure it would have been hard core, only that the Large One intervened with a gruff "Shut it!" that sounded peculiarly like a bark. He turned away from her to send a nod to the other, still invisible cowboy. "Spike, see to these while I make a call, will ya?" Another sidelong glance to the femme fatale and he turned his gaze towards the device in his real hand, punching numbers with his thumb.

She sighed, examined a nail while she spoke airily. "I don't know why you bother, Jet. You know, I'm right here. Why don't you ever ask me to—?"

The front door swung open roughly, almost like it was kicked in, banging the magazine racks just to the left of the checkout, sending mags sprawling. "Maybe because he doesn't trust you, Faye."

Ah, so here was Asshole, at last. Piecing together the last few minutes—had it been only minutes?—I figured he was Spike, a.k.a Egotistical Sonuvabitch. His back was to me as he casually strolled over to Faye—ah, yes, she had a name!—but I could tell he wore a smirk by the tone of his voice. She didn't miss a beat, though. God as my witness, with every passing second I was falling in love with this woman.

"Oh? Do tell, Spike…is it your uncanny ability to reek havoc and rain medical bills that keeps you in his favor? Should I shoot first next time? Or, wait, no…I should probably use my spacecraft as a battering ram."

"It worked, right?" The Spike guy had a cigarette perched between his lips as he rounded the unconscious bounty, her boot now tapping angrily on his belly. The other guy, Jet, he'd disappeared amidst the rows of goods, his voice subdued as he spoke through a comm.-link. There was a long, drawn out moment, the tension building like a rubber-band drawn too tight, as the two bounty hunters stood eyeing one another over their prey, like two carnivores getting ready to fight over a catch. The Spike guy dug a lighter from his pocket and lit his cigarette, exhaling smoke from his nostrils as his eyebrows went up, his hands now resting in his pockets nonchalantly. And though I couldn't tell in the waning light, I just knew he had a crooked, lazy smile on his face. Instantly, I didn't like him. Maybe because I wanted to be him, to have her stare at me as long and hard as she was staring at him now. And what the hell was up with the hair?

He gestured with his elbows, keeping his hands in his pockets, nodding to the passed out and bleeding guy on the floor. "Do you mind?"

She cocked her head to the side, crossing her arms, fingers drumming against her skin. Her nails matched her lipstick. Fuck, she was perfect. And then that hand had swooped in, quick as a snake to snatch his freshly lit cig and bring it to that pouty mouth of hers for a long drag, swift steps bringing her closer to wear I was, now slowly standing, no longer in need of a hiding space. She blew out three perfect little rings of smoke; a singsong voice sent over her shoulder, "No, I don't."

He appeared to be about to come after her, hands now fisted at his side, when his eyes noticed me. I didn't realize at first, his voice an annoying buzz in the back of my brain and my heart in my throat as she sashayed by me without even glancing in my direction, disappearing out the front door without another word, just the sound of her heels clicking on the asphalt. Every dream I'd concocted since the moment I'd laid eyes on her melted in a puddle at my feet.

"Hey, I'm asking if you're okay."

More buzzing. I let out a breath I hadn't realize I'd been holding in a long sigh.

"Hey!"

**---- **

"_Hey!"_

I heard rather than felt the slap of an open hand against my head. Events of the past melted, morphing into the exceptionally angry version of my boss, his jowls trembling, face red and sweating, with an actual bulging vein coursing tortuously across his forehead. I couldn't help the amused snort that escaped, and did a lousy job of covering up with a half-hearted cough.

Well, shit. Looks like I'd done it again.


	2. Rock and a Hard Place

_AN: I have so many plot bunnies in so many different fandoms that it's nice to have something easy to pound out now and then. And for those of you who think these stories have a point, stop wasting your energy. They really don't._

_With that said, enjoy._

**Rock and a Hard Place**

"No, sissy. You bounce the ball and pick up as many as you can before it comes down…here…"

A crash of pots and pans, the shattering of glass, and loud voices getting impossibly louder from within an apartment above echoes over our heads, throughout the alleys, and I know there will be no dinner tonight. It was nothing new. One pint of alcohol was worth enough to feed us both, but the liquor was worth their time, I suppose. I pretend not to notice as I snatch up a few jacks and then hand the ball to my little sister, whose full attention has thankfully remained on the beginnings of the game spread out haphazardly on the cracked and dirty sidewalk. I feel the tug of a smile as I push back wayward strands from her face, the rest of her silky pale hair gathered loosely at her nape. She wears her favorite outfit, a faded pink pillow case with a white polka-dot pattern, thin slips of matching fabric stitched with cheap thread resting on thin, fragile shoulders, already smudged with dirt in spite of last night's bath.

It was this year's birthday gift from me.

I wince, hearing a fist connect with flesh, followed by a scream of pain and outrange, the tumbling of limbs as words leave the argument entirely. Time to go.

"C'mon, sissy. Let's go for a walk." I pull her to her feet before she has time to form a protest, clutching her hand in mine as I gather the rest of the jacks into my fist and shove them in my pockets as I begin to move out of the alley and onto the street. I pay no attention to the muffled whimpers as I practically drag her along, fear my motivator, forcing my heart into my throat.

My pace is enough to send her scurrying to catch up with me, nearly tripping on her own tiny, bare feet as she whines and begs for me to slow down. I'm tempted to have her climb on my back as we reach the corner, the daylight blinding me for a moment.

It's then that I somehow make out the rushing footfalls of someone in an all out run, in front, out of sight, and again, behind us, and in a frantic moment I am suddenly overwhelmed by a sensation of entrapment, tipped so easily by the state of panic I'm already in. To my left, I make out a dumpster, the lid propped open with a rotting table leg, and without thinking, I grab my sister, shocking her briefly into silence as I throw her in. Not bothering to see to whom the footfalls belong, only knowing that they'd soon be _right there_, I hoist myself up and over the edge, landing with a soggy _oomph_, scurrying to press a dirty, trembling hand over the scream about to erupt from sissy's throat. She squirms, but only for a second, her eyes following mine to the gaping maw of the dumpster, and for a moment, I am heartbroken with the knowledge that a life of constant fear has made her much too wise for someone just four years old.

Together, we crouch in the refuse, and wait, but not for long.

Sneakers scrape on concrete, smacking in puddles, their noises echoing from within the dumpster. More footsteps, these sounding harder, and lighter, and now…a voice.

"Stop! I said stop, you idiot!"

A collision of flesh, the rustle of clothing, the ear-busting ricochet of a gun being fired just on the other side of the rusty, slimy metal that surrounded us…one, two times…then two more. There is nothing but heavy breathing now, and an occasional feminine growl, and this, in spite of the danger I'd be facing, incites me to chance a look, my sister burying her face into the torn corduroy of my pants as I hook my fingers round the edge of the opening and pull myself up.

I've only begun to see the top of two heads when one is shoved forcefully into the side of the dumpster, causing the lid to drop suddenly. I am amazed when, sitting anew amidst the decaying innards, I realize I still have all my fingers. There is another bone-breaking slam, then another, this one accompanied by a short gasp, then the sound of something sliding against the outside before collapsing to the ground. There is a pause, and again, my curiosity nearly overcomes my common sense.

"Faye!"

This voice is distant, but approaching quickly, not from the alley, but from the street, I think—it's difficult to tell with the lid closed and my sister pressing her face into my chest so she could breathe without gagging. I cradle her then, shushing her as I look around in the darkness, hoping the drama outside would play itself out soon so we could get out and away…and that's when I notice a tiny hole in the metal, just off to my right. I tell myself it's for want of a taste of fresh air that I creep over to it, but I know otherwise. The fact that the hole is from a recently fired bullet does not deter me.

"Faye!" The voice is much closer this time, the footfalls coming to a scraping halt just as another pair pick up and begin moving quickly away. I make it to the peephole in time to see a man in a leather jacket whip past. I can hear a woman moaning, and I ignore my sister's trembling and gasping as I lean in for a wider view. Unfortunately, the woman has fallen out of sight, somewhere off to my left, but she's close enough that I can hear her rapid breathing.

Another man zooms past suddenly, blocking the view completely for the span of less than a second, heading in the direction that the Leather Jacket person had gone. My whole body pans to the right, my neck straining, cheek pressed against mold and mildew and cold metal in my effort to catch a glimpse. Sissy cries my name, and I shush her more forcefully this time, instantly regretting my actions with the look on her innocent face. I frown, pulling her up against me and holding her tightly as I go back to watching.

I see nothing for several moments, and then the sound of footsteps heralds someone's return. They pause, then the pace is harried, carrying their owner closer to the dumpster and likely to the woman slumped against it. And then I see him, for a brief moment, my eyes bugging out of my head at the sight of a tangled mop of green hair. He pauses right in front of the dumpster, and I have a perfect view: wrinkled blue suit, a gun in his right hand that he quickly holsters beneath his coat. He's staring down at something just in front of the dumpster, and the look on his face…well, I'd say he looks pretty damn scared.

And that, for some reason, scares me. But I don't turn away. I can't.

"Christ, Faye," he mumbles, the anger in his voice not matching the emotions on his face. There's a muffled groan in response, and his brow furrows more, but he looks no less worried. He kneels, and his face is only a foot away from mine, and instinctively I back away, in spite of the steel wall that separates us from the rest of the world. I gather my wits after a moment, still clutching my sister to me, as she now seems to be entranced in what is going on outside as well, and move back to my post, albeit this time keeping a safe distance so as to not be seen from the other side.

He's taken off his jacket, perhaps using it to wrap around the woman, and is now crouching on his heels, his head tilting this way and that as he reaches for something in his belt. Bringing a hand to his mouth, he curses quietly again before saying, "Jet, you'll need to come pick us up."

There is static, and I'm entranced, having never seen a comm. link this close before.

A gruff, metallic voice bellows from the speaker. "Did you get 'im?"

He's never taken his eyes off the woman, lips forming a pensive frown as his eyes scan about, and I get the impression he's taking inventory. "No. But he got Faye. I don't think I can carry her all the way back to the ship."

"Aw, shit! What the hell happened now?!"

The man bows his head, his eyes closing wearily, shoulders heaving once in a snort before looking back at the space I imagine the woman lay, propped against the dumpster. He shakes his head, looking out at the mouth of the alley, squinting in thought before mumbling into the comm. link again. "Just come and get us. I'm sending my coordinates." He's distracted from the woman long enough to punch a few numbers in the keypad before returning it to his pants pocket. When he glances back up, his eyes meet mine through the peephole for an instant before I can duck down, and I barely clamp my hand over my own mouth fast enough to muffle the gasp.

From our hiding place, we can hear movements, a slide of fabric against the dumpster wall, and a muffled grunt accompanied by a gasp of pain from the woman. Several seconds pass during which I begin to think we're finally alone, when suddenly I hear the man's voice.

"You can come out anytime now. I'm not going to hurt you."

I know he's speaking to me, but I hope he isn't, and so I pull my sister against my chest and wait, my face tilted up to the closed hatch of the dumpster. Several more seconds tick away, and then a weary sigh is heard before the man deadpans, "I'm sure it smells lovely in there. Do what you want."

My sister and I exchange wary looks before I gather the courage to stand, pushing the lid open just enough that I can peek out into the alley. The man has gathered the woman in his arms, her head resting heavily on his shoulder, and is walking with determined strides towards the street. I push the lid open wider, standing at full height to watch as he turns to look down on her unconscious face, his expression pained, and I hear him murmur, "Someday, I hope you get tired of this," just before he disappears around the corner.

I blink several times, partly in relief and wonder at what had just happened, partly to rid of the tears in my eyes from the stench and the bright light. My sister has pulled herself up beside me and is struggling to climb out, and I move to help her when I notice something lying beneath a chipped brick on the ground just below me. I don't believe it at first, grasping my sister's arms and lowering her to the concrete before bracing to hop over and out, until my sister notices it, too.

"Look!" she squeals, her shorts legs skipping to the brick, tiny fingers lifting up the makeshift paper weight to clutch what lay there in her hands and lifting it up for display, like a prize, to my unbelieving eyes. But there it was, real as the sludge that stained our clothes, as the smell that permeated every ounce of my being: money. Real money. And a lot of it, by what I could tell. Enough to buy dinner for the rest of the month. I steal a glance over my shoulder at the opening of the alley, the man and his ward now long gone, feeling a smile creep onto my grimy face as my sister dances a barefoot ditty in the puddles around me.

And for one tiny moment, I'm not afraid of anything.


End file.
